


good night, good night (sweet dreams for now)

by CrazyPrepared (writerofberk)



Category: Trolls (Movies 2016 2020)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, i am once again asking y'all to ignore Trolls World Tour with me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27831121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerofberk/pseuds/CrazyPrepared
Summary: Prompt: Poppy needs a nap.
Relationships: Branch/Queen Poppy (Trolls)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 40
Collections: Best Broppy





	good night, good night (sweet dreams for now)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Robotmonkeygirl91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robotmonkeygirl91/gifts).



> "Good night, good night,  
> Sweet dreams for now,  
> Drift off to sleep,  
> On your pillow of clouds."
> 
> \- "Lullaby", Sleeping at Last

Ever since Poppy ended the war with the Bergens, the world has shot straight past _weird_ , rolled right on through _utterly bizarre_ , and landed, finally and firmly, in the realm of completely unbelievable.

Branch still can't wrap his head around half of it—he's blue, his skin a sharp burst of bright color, and when he looks in the mirror, a troll he doesn't know stares back at him, blue eyes and blue hair and shimmery silver freckles glittering faintly on his cheeks, and an easy, open smile settled on his face where he knows a scowl should be, and it's like he's staring at a stranger, at a Branch who just stepped out of a dreamworld, a sweet little sugar-bowl fantasy where it's all cupcakes and rainbows, where everything is beautiful and bad doesn't exist, where there are no such things as Bergens, where colors come back even if mothers and fathers and grandmothers don't, and he can't tear his eyes away from the man on the other side of the glass, and hard as it is to believe, that is not even the craziest thing.

Because he has _friends_ now, and that's even crazier. He goes to party after party after party, so many he loses count (it's still not as many as Poppy asks him to come to, but bright lights and loud music are always going to tie knots in his stomach and knots in his throat) and there are trolls besides Poppy who actually talk to him at these parties, who dance with him and drink with him and laugh with him, tell him jokes and stories and listen to him when he tells his own.

And he _sings_ now.

In the quiet dark of the bunker, where no one else can hear, he _sings_ , his hands shaking and sweating and his heart in his throat, crashing in his ears, but he sings anyway because he's been silent for twenty years now and _he is not going to be afraid anymore._

It all feels like a dream.

And maybe it is.

Good things don't just _happen_ to him, after all. Good things don't just fall into his lap like this, all nice and neat and perfect, all wrapped up in bright paper with shiny red bows on top, good things don't come his way, good things aren't meant for him, and maybe he should hold his breath a little longer, maybe he should steel himself a little harder, clench his fists a little tighter, maybe it really _is_ all a dream, but—

—but if it's a dream, it's the most beautiful one he has ever had.

And he _never_ wants to wake up.

And the craziest thing of all—crazier than the blue troll in the mirror every morning, crazier than the friends outside his door every day, crazier than his own voice echoing and echoing and echoing through the empty rooms every night—is that he is in Poppy's room, he is in Poppy's bed, and she's curled up at his side, fast asleep with her head on his shoulder and her hand in his and her eyes squeezed shut, long black lashes fluttering lightly against her freckled, rosy cheeks. Her pink hair is plastered flat to the side of her face, sticking straight up like a tree, and Branch has never loved her more than he does right now, he's never loved her more than when she's like this—her favorite blue dress wrinkled, her makeup smudged, her topknot in tangles, and a small, sweet smile on her lips even in her sleep.

He knows he should wake her—the party's only an hour off, and she always likes to show up early, to be the first troll in the door, to say hello to everyone, to hug and talk and laugh with everyone before the music takes over, and she hasn't even put on her new dress, and she'll want to brush out her hair and redo her makeup when she gets a look in the mirror, and God knows _he_ has plenty of things he needs to be doing, God knows he has so much work, he can't let her lay around on him all night—but she looks so tired (and so _beautiful_ ) and all he can do is tuck her fuzzy purple quilt around her bare shoulders, press a soft kiss to her brow, and shut his eyes, too.

(When he wakes up again, he wakes up in Poppy's room, in Poppy's bed, and she's curled up at his side, fast asleep with her head on his shoulder and her hand in his, and it's not a dream.)

**Author's Note:**

> didn't actually intend to post this here (i gotta be really satisfied with the way a prompt turned out to show it off outside of tumblr) but somebody left some really lovely comments in the tags when they reblogged the og post, and they said they would love to see it on AO3. and i am a warlock of and for the people.


End file.
